


Kintsukuroi

by Ralkana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: First Time, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn Battle, Scars, Trope Bingo Round 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:43:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometime during the first half of the first season of Agents of SHIELD, Phil's team needs a sniper. Agent Ward is temporarily out of commission, and SHIELD sends the nearest qualified individual, who just so happens to be Clint, who has long been aware of Phil's survival.</p><p>The mission is a success, if a messy one (as usual). This is what happens immediately after the mission ends and the debriefs wrap up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kintsukuroi

**Author's Note:**

> Kintsukuroi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold, in the belief that something is more beautiful for having been broken.
> 
> Written for Porn Battle Round 15, for the prompts _scars_ and _mission_. It also fills the "hurt/comfort" square on my Trope Bingo Round 3 card.
> 
> Special thanks to Dazzledfirestar and Mrasaki for plotting help and feeding the bunny, and to AlyKat for the read-through and the advice. Thanks, all! Gold stars all around.

 

_Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars ~ Khalil Gibran_

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

Clint doesn't even think about it. They haven't worked together in so long now, he's just a pinch hitter on this team, but his mind is focused on the mission, on the outcome, on the debrief that just happened in the makeshift briefing room next door, and the questions he has, and he just doesn't think. He does his familiar knock-knock-enter, the one he's done so many times before, already talking as he steps into the hotel room they're using as a command center.

"Hey, boss, I -- "

His words die in his throat and he freezes in the doorway. He's caught Coulson in the middle of changing his shirt. Coulson whirls toward the door, one hand holding his undershirt in front of his chest, his mouth open in surprise, cheeks flushing bright.

Clint registers a torn and soiled dress shirt on the floor at Coulson's feet, covered in the glowing blue slime of the... things they've been fighting, and Coulson is saying something about another suit being ruined, his voice aiming for flippant and missing by a mile, but Clint can't stop staring. Coulson is holding his undershirt in front of his chest as he talks, trying to be casual about it, but he's forgotten that his spin put him with his back to the mirrored closet door. The scar on his back is livid, red, and enormous, too big to believe, a gaping slash down Coulson's pale flesh.

"Jesus, Coulson," Clint breathes, the words slipping out without intent, and Coulson's voice hitches, trails to a stop. He glances over his shoulder and stiffens, his shoulders slumping, arms dropping to his sides. The undershirt hangs limply from his hand, forgotten now.

Clint loses his breath again. The scar on Coulson's chest is smaller, but just as raw, just as vicious. He stares, rapt, unable to help it, his thoughts a jumbled mix of angry curses, crippling guilt, and half-formed prayers of deepest gratitude.

He closes the door behind him and takes a step. Coulson flinches, and Clint stops. They stand for a moment, Clint tense with the storm of emotion flooding him, Coulson with defeat in every line of his frame.

Coulson's hand, the one holding the soiled, slimy undershirt, twitches and starts to rise, and Clint realizes that Coulson is about to pull it over his head, put it back on his body, wear God knows what on his skin just so Clint won't see --

"Don't," he rasps out, his voice harsh, and Coulson freezes. "Don't cover it, especially not with _that_."

Crossing the room in a few quick steps, he yanks the shirt out of Coulson's hand and tosses it to the ground.

"I..." Coulson says, but his voice trails off, lost. "I never wanted -- never, not you..."

Clint blinks, controls his flinch, but it isn't blame in Coulson's wide blue eyes, or anger, or even guilt. It's sadness, humiliation. It's _shame_ , and suddenly, Clint sees. He _understands_. He feels like laughing, but he bites it back, steps even closer, until he can almost feel the heat of Coulson's body washing over him.

Up close, the scar is inescapable. Even now, after so many months, the flesh of it looks raw, angry and inflamed, still healing, irrevocably marking him, _changing_ him. It's right over his heart, and it shouts of pain, and blood, and death, and Clint stops breathing, vision blurring as he stares at it. And then it moves with Coulson's chest, with Coulson's breath. He is _breathing_ , he is standing in front of Clint breathing, and trembling, and Clint's breath leaves him in a rush.

"I needed to see it," he whispers. " _You_ need to see it, you need to _see_ it, to _look_ at it."

"Why?" Coulson asks, his voice small and filled with incomprehension. "It's terrible."

"It's amazing," Clint counters. "Do you know what this scar means? Screw what it looks like, do you know what it means?" He touches a fingertip to the raised flesh, gently, the lightest pressure, almost no contact at all, but Coulson's stomach hitches like Clint's punched him.

He tears his gaze away from Coulson's puckered, livid flesh and glances up. Coulson is watching him, those blue eyes wide and so, so confused, and Clint feels like his heart might break all over again. He takes a deep breath, tries to order his thoughts, because this is so incredibly important.

"Do you know what I think when I look at the scars on my body, Coulson?" he asks, and Coulson shakes his head, a tiny movement, his gaze never leaving Clint's face.

"I always think that they tell the truth. They tell my story. They say, to everyone who hurt me, who tried to put their mark on me, who tried to _end_ me, they say fuck you. You failed. I'm _here_. That's what they say. Every scar I have, every scar you have -- this one, the one on your hip from your time as a Ranger, the one on your calf from Honduras, the one behind your ear from Budapest -- every single fucking one of them is a battle that you won, Coulson. One more fight, one more way to show the bastards that you won't let them beat you. You are the biggest badass that I know, sir, and every single one of these scars proves it. Fuck him. He failed. You're here. You're _here_ , and I'm -- "

Clint's voice finally breaks and he stops, swallows. "I'm so fucking _grateful_ that you're here."

Coulson's breath leaves him in something that might be a laugh, might be a sob. His eyes are bright, shining with emotion, and he closes them, head dropping a little so that it's inches from Clint's own.

He closes his own eyes, leaning forward, just a little, until their foreheads touch and a shiver runs through them both.

"You know, Clint," Coulson says, and another shiver wracks through Clint at the sound of his name on the other man's tongue. "You do know, don't you, how glad I am that you're here too? How grateful?"

Clint's eyes open in surprise, but Coulson's head is still bowed, his eyes closed.

"I... I woke up, and everything was hazy and it hurt and nothing made sense and it seemed like no one was telling me anything, and then I saw footage of -- of the battle, and you -- "

His breath catches and he finally looks up. His eyes are so wide, blue and silver and so beautifully bright. "You were there," he says, his voice full of wonder. "Fighting with Natasha and Stark and Captain Rogers and the others, and all I could think was, 'Oh, thank God. Thank God, he's alive. Thank God, they _got him back_.'"

Clint can't move, held captive by everything he sees in those eyes. He never knew, how could he not know, how could he not see --

"I didn't want to wake up in a world without you in it," Coulson whispers.

"Jesus, Coulson," he says, trembling, flayed wide open by those words and everything he sees in those eyes.

"Phil," Coulson says, his voice a quiet, desperate gasp. "Please, Clint -- "

"Phil," he whispers, permission given for what he's wanted for _so long_ , and then Coulson is kissing him, _Phil_ is kissing him, his lips hot against Clint's, one hand around the back of Clint's head, fingers gripping tightly, chest and hips pressing urgently against Clint's body. Clint gasps and Phil deepens the kiss, the lush wet heat of Phil's tongue, Phil's mouth overwhelming, and Clint groans deep in his chest, goes pliant, gives himself up to it.

Phil's hand is still tight in his hair, the other gripping a handful of Clint's ass through his tac pants and squeezing, and Clint swears into the kiss with a jolt, a hard thrust against Phil's body. His hands slide over the warm skin of Phil's chest, the muscles of his shoulders, his strong back. His fingertips touch scar tissue, puckered flesh, and Phil jumps, freezes, tries to pull away.

Clint pulls out of the kiss long enough to ask, "Does it hurt?"

"No -- "

"Then let me," he says fiercely, pulling Phil back into his arms. The kiss they share is hot, hard, and demanding, but Clint's hands are gentle on Phil's skin as he traces the edges of the scar and runs his hands up and down the the planes of Phil's back. Phil's stiff in his arms at first, but he relaxes gradually, moaning into Clint's mouth, his body pressing closer to Clint's.

His fingertips may be gentle, Clint realizes, but the fabric and buckles of his fieldsuit are not, and the scar on Phil's back is not the only one he has. Reluctantly, Clint breaks the kiss and steps away, looks down, and yes, the scar on Phil's chest is a little red, a little irritated. He doesn't think, he just bends his head and presses a soft kiss to where he's unwittingly hurt Phil.

"Clint," Phil gasps, his hand tightening in Clint's hair, and all of a sudden it all rushes in. He's here, Phil's hand in his hair, Phil murmuring his name, Phil's lips flushed and wet with Clint's kisses. He's warm and breathing and _alive_ , and he's _here with Clint_. Clint's knees tremble, and give way, and he sinks to them, resting his forehead against Phil's stomach.

"Clint?" Phil repeats, his voice concerned, and Clint looks up past Phil's stomach and his chest to see Phil staring down at him, face flushed, eyes wide and dark. It dawns on Clint that he is kneeling in his boots and fieldsuit and Phil is still in his suit trousers and dress shoes, and every fantasy he's ever had of being on his knees in front of Phil comes roaring back.

They must show in his eyes, on his face, because Phil's breath hitches, his eyes widening and going even darker as his hand tightens just a little more in Clint's hair. The bulge of his half-hard cock twitches in his suit pants, and Clint groans at the sight, his eyes slipping closed. He can't help himself, he rubs his cheek against it, against the feel of Phil's hardening flesh in the soft, expensive fabric, one hand gripping Phil's taut, muscled thigh, the other sliding down to adjust himself in the tight tac pants of his fieldsuit.

"Fuck," Phil rasps, cock twitching again, and Clint presses into it harder. "Fuck. Clint. God, _Clint_."

He glances up again, through his eyelashes, cheek still pressed against the hard length of Phil's cock. Phil is watching him, eyes dark and wide, mouth half-open, his lips red and wet, and as Clint stares back, the tip of Phil's tongue slips out and wets them again.

"Please," Clint whispers, and Phil's eyes fall closed and then blink open again. "Please, Phil, let me..."

"God..." Phil groans, his hips jerking, hard cock brushing Clint's cheek, his hand tight in Clint's hair. Clint takes that as a yes and raises hands that want to tremble and shake to Phil's fly.

He unbuckles Phil's belt but doesn't remove it, lets the leather hang free on either side of Phil's fly, buckle jingling softly as Phil shifts under Clint's hands. He unbuttons Phil's pants and carefully unzips them but doesn't push them down or take them off either, hand dipping in to carefully free Phil's hard cock.

It's thick and heavy in Clint's hand, and his mouth waters at the sight of it, long and hard and curving slightly toward Phil's stomach. He wets his lips, and Phil swears again, cock jumping in Clint's hand, the head of it glistening.

Clint presses a kiss to the head of it, lapping at the moisture there, and then takes the head of it into his mouth, eyes slipping closed as he breathes in the heady scent of Phil's arousal, Phil's need, _Phil_.

He swirls his tongue around the head of Phil's cock, takes him deeper, and then loses himself in the feeling of it, the sensations that roll over him. Phil's hands in his hair, stroking his cheek, his jaw, his shoulders. The scent of Phil's skin, the taste of it, the dizzying contradiction of soft skin and hard flesh. The sounds Phil makes, the sounds Clint is _pulling_ from him, soft pleas and harsh curses and quiet, needy moans.

Clint bobs his head, takes Phil even deeper until his lips are brushing his fingers where they stretch around the base of Phil's cock, the head of it brushing the back of his throat, Phil's hips thrusting gently, carefully under Clint's hands. Phil's hands -- one on Clint's shoulder, one curved around the back of his neck -- hold him and anchor him, keeping him close but never forcing him. He opens his eyes to see Phil's head fall back as he groans, his pulse jumping in his throat, his skin slick with sweat.

"Fuck," he gasps. "Fuck, Clint, so _good_ , please, yes, feels so good, _you_ feel so good."

Clint moans at his words, and Phil's cock twitches, hardens further.

"Please," Phil says again, a long, drawn out groan as Clint takes him deep again, sucks harder, cheeks hollowing with the effort. "Fuck, don't stop, gonna come. Gonna come. Clint, please, I'm gonna come."

He comes with a sharp cry, head thrown back, body arching, his hands grasping tightly at Clint's body. He shudders against Clint, climax rocking him, and Clint holds him tightly and takes him through it, throat working against the head of Phil's cock as he swallows.

Phil wobbles under his hands, unsteady.

"Fuck," he gasps, and then he staggers back a step, two steps, sitting hard on the bed. Clint's up in a flash, hovering over him.

"Phil? Phil? You okay?"

"Jesus Christ," Phil says, his voice a fucked-out rasp. "I haven't come that hard in years. Fuck, Clint, come _here_."

Clint shoves off his half-tied boots as Phil toes off his dress shoes and lays back on the bed. The buckles and snaps of Clint's fieldsuit vest are loud in the quiet room as he struggles briefly with them, tossing it to the ground when he's done and crawling up the bed into Phil's arms.

Phil kisses him deeply, holding him close, and Clint whines into it, hips pushing into Phil's hands as he opens the fly of Clint's tac pants. His hands are warm, the calluses rough in just the right way against the sensitive skin of Clint's cock.

"What do you want?" Phil asks him, lips nipping at Clint's lower lip, easing the sting with a brief lick. "Tell me what you want."

"Just... Jesus, Phil, just touch me, please! I want... your hands, I need -- you're here, and -- "

"Shh," Phil soothes, kissing him again until he calms. "Of course, of course I will, how can I not?"

Clint watches as Phil wraps his hand around his own softening cock, still glistening from Clint's mouth, and then takes Clint's cock in his hand. It's hot and wet and not _quite_ slick enough, and the friction is _perfect_. Clint gasps, keening as he thrusts into Phil's fist, against the hard muscles of Phil's thigh, the fingers of Phil's other hand gripping his hip tightly, guiding his movements.

"How can I not?" Phil repeats, staring down at his hand, tight around Clint's cock. "Just look at you, you're gorgeous, Clint. Your hard body under my hands, your muscles straining, just _look_ at you. Fuck, Clint, you're beautiful."

"Please," Clint gasps, nearly a sob. He's so close, Phil's barely touched him, and he's _so close_. Phil's still talking, still murmuring to him, his voice quiet and steady in Clint's ear, that voice he's loved so long, missed so much. "Phil, please, I'm..."

Phil strokes him steadily with a wicked twist of his wrist at the end of each stroke, talking to him the whole time, and Clint moans. Phil's thumb swipes over the head of his cock, the barest hint of a blunt nail against the slit, and he jerks and cries out, gasping as he comes all over himself and Phil's hand.

He trembles and shivers in Phil's arms, and Phil strokes him through the shivers that wrack his body, every touch arcing through him like lightning. He raises his head toward Phil's, and Phil catches his mouth, pulling him into the kiss he didn't even know he was seeking.

Clint curls into Phil's side, Phil's arm coming around to hold him tightly, and he rests his head on Phil's chest as they both pant to get their breath back.

He thinks of how ridiculous they must look, sex flushed and sweaty, still in their pants and socks, the rest of their clothes flung everywhere, and he hasn't quite come to terms with it all yet.

"The door's unlocked," he realizes suddenly, and Phil jolts at his words before his chest shakes with a soft laugh.

"Neither one of us were particularly quiet," he answers, his voice wry and a little sheepish. "I'm pretty sure my whole team's figured out what was going on in here by now."

 _What **was** going on in here,_ Clint thinks, but he doesn't ask. He presses a kiss to the edge of the scar on Phil's chest, because it's there. Because he's here. Phil stiffens and then consciously relaxes, his hand coming up to card though Clint's sweaty hair. Clint gathers up as much courage as he can, drawing comfort and reassurance from the touch. "Do you mind?" he asks.

"You kissing me there?" Phil murmurs. "I'm... I'm trying not to. I'm trying to get used to it."

Clint kisses him there again. "That wasn't what I meant," he whispers.

Phil's silent for a moment, thinking. "Do I mind that they know? No, Clint, I don't. I don't mind. I'm not ashamed of you, or of this."

"What's this?" Clint says into Phil's skin, his voice so soft that he can barely hear it, and Phil must surely miss it.

But he doesn't. His fingers curl under Clint's chin, gentle pressure until Clint lifts his head, finds Phil's gaze with his. Phil is smiling softly, his eyes bright and happy, very satisfied and a little sleepy.

"It's... I'm here. You're here. I didn't know this was a possibility, but now that I know, I'm not about to give it up."

Quiet happiness blooms in Clint's chest, and he smiles back, watching Phil's smile widen in return.

He's here. Phil's here. They're going to make this work, somehow, and that's all that matters.

**END**


End file.
